


Influence

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Lady or the Tiger? - Frank Stockton
Genre: F/M, POV Molly Hooper, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 02:45:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11958090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Molly faces a choice, in which Sherlock will bear the consequences.





	Influence

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to Immadd4mgatiss, who writes lovely comments on my work and offered me this prompt. Inspired by The Lady or The Tiger by Frank Stockton. Another one of my unbeta'ed, blurted-it-out-in-an-hour works, because I'm never patient enough not to publish immediately. <3

Generally speaking, Molly Hooper was not the first person who came to mind when people thought of danger. Her quiet demenour and nervous disposition helped her fade into the background, rendering her all but invisible. In truth, this was a carefully honed skill, first practiced by a woman so captivating she rarely passed unnoticed. In her chosen profession, however, unremarkable people lasted longer and learned more than the most dazzling of hothouse flowers. As a result, she had faded into obscurity, climbing the shadowy professional rankings until she answered to only one man in all of Britain – the only man privy to her true identity. Molly Hooper was a façade to all but James Moriarty. She could play games in any way she liked, setting up and knocking down the rich and powerful at her whim; only Sherlock Holmes, the man who captured Moriarty’s imagination, was forbidden to her.

As it happened, Molly’s work brought her into Sherlock’s circle of acquaintance. Her intelligence was key to Moriarty, but she did not delude herself into believing this made her invaluable to him; the man was insane, after all, and her escape plans remained primed at all times. At a moment’s notice she could drop whatever she was working on and disappear. For all Sherlock Holmes’ snide remarks about sentiment, Molly Hooper’s ability to leave people and things behind made him look like a weepy hoarding old woman. She valued nothing material, and her wealth, considerable as it was, could be accessed by any number of methods available to the dozen or more false identities she could seize as she fled. Nothing tied her to London. Nothing, except Sherlock himself.

Molly had allowed herself a single act of sentiment – caring for Sherlock. Initially it had been in the guise of a soppy young woman falling for the unattainable, a ruse perfectly in character for the mousy pathologist she portrayed. The character of Molly was smitten; her desire to acquiesce to his demands and throwaway compliments made her less of a threat in his eyes, allowing her to remain unseen to any who strove to protect him, namely his brother and that DI. The real Molly, calculating and ruthless, saw Sherlock as a pawn in the greater game, a piece valuable to her boss. She knew that although Moriarty would kill her without remorse, her ability to funnel information about Sherlock to him did lend her a modicum of usefulness. And so she cultivated a persona as the obliging, besotted young woman on the fringe of Sherlock’s life.

Unfortunately for her, the disguise was too good; the self-portrait bled through her mask, colouring the true self below until there was no denying it any longer – her heart, her true heart, belonged to Sherlock. She yearned for him, entertaining secret fantasies of their bodies moving together as one. The simpering expression was no longer a complete fallacy; the longing looks now materialized whether she detected an audience or not. Her copious notes about Sherlock became more personal, more expressive and less factual. The most critical change, however was her ultimate downfall; she now filtered the information sent to Moriarty. He still asked for, and received, generic information about the detective’s experiments, interests, state of mind with regard to illegal drugs and smoking. No longer, however, did she speculate about his susceptibility to this plan or that, the way he might react to a threat against Mrs. Hudson or John Watson, the restraunteer or members of his homeless network. Clever though she was, it was inevitable that Moriarty notice the change in pattern, and, as befit a man as lacking in sanity as James Moriarty, he would keep the knowledge to himself until it was useful to him.

+++

Kneeling in the filthy dockyard, Molly assessed the situation. Sherlock stood before her, achingly poised for action in his coat and scarf. Moriarty’s words flowed over her head towards Sherlock, the sing-song taunts swirling like water in the cold night air. She knew the choice Moriarty was presenting him; life or death, freedom or committal to the cold, hard ground. Should Sherlock open the door to find death awaiting him, Molly knew she would suffer the same fate. To Sherlock, she was still the quiet, innocent girl bearing only the weight of unrequited love – and she knew he cared for the girl she had pretended to be, however much he repressed it. Should Sherlock open the door to find John Watson, they would be free to continue their lives unmolested, Moriarty having vowed to remove his influence from London forever.

There was another layer though, another consideration, as there always was with Moriarty. Molly knew which of the shipping containers behind her bore life, and which death - and Moriarty knew that she knew. Though she was bound and gagged, her eyes were pinned on Sherlock, and he would surely trust her, should she lead him in one direction over the other. Such a choice she could make, that Moriarty knew she would make. Lead him to life, wherein he could live contented for all his days in the arms of another (for only a blind person could miss the bond he held with John Watson); or condemn him to death, and also herself, sparing her the repeated agony of watching him from afar, knowing she could never possess such perfection. She vacillated from one to the other, choosing death and then life in the same heartbeat, before changing her mind once and again. There was no rest, no way to absent herself; no matter the consequence, there was no possibility of looking away from those eyes and leaving it entirely to chance.  She must exert her influence, and may the Gods pity her predicament.

As Moriarty’s speech reached its climax, Sherlock’s eyes dropped to hers with unerring accuracy. Breathing deeply, Molly flicked her eyes to her left several times, pleading silently for him to take heed and follow her direction. One his hesitant steps committed to that side, she closed her eyes, unable to watch the outcome of her choice. For as long as she lived, regret would fill Molly to overflowing, scorching her soul to ashes.

And so I leave it with all of you: Which came out of the opened door – life or death?

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it is intended to be an ambiguous ending. The final line is a paraphrase of Frank Stockton's story: "And so I leave it with all of you: Which came out of the opened door – the lady, or the tiger?"  
> [Here's a link,](http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/LadyTige.shtml) it's worth a read.


End file.
